


All or None

by Laylah



Category: Last Remnant
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon, Sparring, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-13
Updated: 2009-11-13
Packaged: 2017-10-02 14:01:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"How many blades?" Torgal asks by way of greeting.</p><p>"All of them," Emma answers, smiling, the battle joy already lighting her eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All or None

The practice field is nearly empty this early in the morning. They've learned from experience that it's the only way to get in a proper bout; if they wait until more of their soldiers are around, they run the risk of injuring the inevitable gawkers. But first thing in the morning, when the dew still clings to the gravel and Emma's breath steams in the air, they can enjoy the luxury of a serious match.

"How many blades?" Torgal asks by way of greeting.

"All of them," Emma answers, smiling, the battle joy already lighting her eyes. She only ever chooses all or none. Once, in their very first match, twenty years ago when she was newly returned to Athlum's service after the birth of her daughter, Torgal made the mistake of suggesting that he handicap himself and fight with only two of his swords. Her gauntleted fist broke his jaw.

Torgal appreciates the determination of the Nassaus, their honor and thoughtfulness, but there is something refreshing and admirable about the ferocity of the Honeywells. They have a directness to them that most mitra are too timid to act on. Torgal draws both pairs of his blades as Emma unsheathes her mismatched set: the sovani styles depend on balance, the elegance of patterns repeated, and Emma's aggressive asymmetry always challenges him.

She salutes with her right-hand blade, and he raises his own right primary in return. "Ready," she says, either a question or a warning, and as Torgal nods, she attacks.

Her right blade leads, the liquid curve of bluesteel, and Torgal parries with his left primary -- another hard lesson to learn, that her size is deceptive, and he still needs his stronger limbs to block the strikes she puts force behind. He ripostes below her blade with his lower left, but the flick of her wrist drops her sword's tip enough that he has to pull the strike or else grant her first blood before they've truly begun.

He presses an attack with his right primary instead, his steel grating against hers, and she springs back to recover her guard. The battle ground gravel crunches under her boots. She smiles, her scar vivid with exertion -- already; neither of them hold back against each other -- and beckons him to attack again.

Torgal sweeps forward, into the dance of four winds, and Emma moves with his strikes, her footwork quick and agile as she refuses to simply _be_ in the place where his swords converge. There is a growl rising in his throat as he gathers himself for another attack, a barbarism his people claim to have left behind generations ago. He strikes downward and Emma staggers, dives out of his way, rolling to her feet with her swords still ready -- and she is pressing her own attack by the time he can turn, leading with her left and following with a quick thrust that he barely manages to trap in his blades.

They circle each other without managing to draw blood, until he can smell her exertion, her sweat mixing with the leather and steel scents that always follow her. His blood pounds in his limbs, his pupils dilating, his ears flattening with each lunge. Soon now -- one of them must err soon. Torgal can taste the longing for blood in the back of his throat, can see it in Emma's teeth-bared smile.

He ignores the first noise from the sidelines, and the second, and the third. "Sirs," a qsiti voice says at last, and Emma stops moving, though her eyes remain locked with Torgal's and she doesn't lower her blades.

"Speak," she says.

"The Marquis has asked for you," the qsiti says apologetically. "Will you join him for breakfast?"

Torgal straightens, coming out of his guard. "What does his lordship require?"

"A messenger has arrived," the qsiti reports. "I do not know the details, but General Blocter has told us to prepare to move."

The frustration fades from Emma's face at that, and she nods. "Thank you," she tells the soldier. "Tell Lord David that we will be with him shortly." She smiles at Torgal, wry now, restrained. "I trust we can continue this later?"

Torgal bows. "Any time."

*

The day provides no opportunities for a rematch, which might in some instances be an annoyance, but in this instance Emma cannot bring herself to complain. They will march tomorrow morning for Yamarn Plain; beastmen are pitiful foes in small numbers, but an army of them should still be a worthy challenge. For tonight, she can find some other means of relaxation. She knocks at Torgal's door.

"Come in," he calls. He doesn't sound surprised; he never does, when she comes to see him.

Well, he is predictable in battle. Perhaps everyone is predictable in some habit or another.

Emma turns the knob and opens the door. "Good evening," she says.

Torgal nods. "Good evening," he says. He is seated, cross-legged on one of the cushions by his low work table, and he does not rise. "Everything is in order for tomorrow, then?"

She would not be here if it were not. "The new recruits may not sleep much tonight," she says, "but there's little to be done about that."

"They will learn," Torgal says. "All soldiers begin like that." One of his ears flicks, a gesture Emma has learned to read as akin to a sidelong smile. "You were much the same, when you first enlisted."

"And you?" Emma asks. She kneels at the table. "Were even you like that, once upon a time?"

"Maybe," Torgal admits. "When I was an untrained kit of fifty or so." He stretches out one hand to her, uncrossing his lower pair of arms -- that gesture also meaningful, a deliberate willingness to allow someone close; Emma has never seen another sovani do it in front of a mitra. "Have you come to continue what we began this morning?"

Emma shrugs, shifts closer so that he can rest one hand on her shoulder, another at her waist. "In a manner of speaking," she says, and leans in to kiss him. As a rule, she has heard, sovani do not kiss -- the sharpness of their teeth and the shape of their faces make it an awkward proposition. But Torgal makes an exception with her; this is a strange middle ground they meet in, neither of them quite conforming to the standards of their kind. His tongue is rough against her lip, and she is careful of his teeth, and they know each other well enough to make it work.

His golden eyes have gone dark, pupils dilated, when he pulls back. It's the same reaction whether he's meeting her in the bedroom or on the battlefield. "Will you come to bed?" he asks.

"Gladly," Emma says. She pulls away so they can undress -- they are neither of them young enough for impatience, rushed enough to need to fumble with the other's buttons and buckles when it's simpler to take care of themselves. Emma strips efficiently, watching Torgal do likewise, hiding her amusement at the slight awkwardness of fighting all of his limbs free of armor and clothing. His fur is the same charcoal-dark shade all over, seamed in a few places with old scars, his musculature sleek and powerful.

That close-lying fur is a luxury against her bare skin, as much as the near-overwhelming sensation of having all his hands on her at once. One pair cup her breasts, the other set stroking her thighs, his palms bare and sword-callused as her own. She reaches up to rub the sensitive bases of his ears, and smiles at the low rumble of pleasure in his chest. He lets go with one hand, strokes back his sheath to bare his cock. Emma rubs her cheek against his shoulder. "Bed," she says.

Torgal nods, sinks down gracefully onto his low bed, pulls her with him. Emma lowers herself on top of him, takes his cock, winds her legs around his waist below his second set of arms. Her hum of pleasure at the fit is nearly like his purr. They rock together slowly -- he is a sovani; he has the stamina to last until she's truly had her fill, not only once or twice but as long as her strength lasts.

Afterward he asks, "Will you stay?" Courteous as always, never assuming he knows. It has been years since she declined.

"I will," Emma says, and kisses him one more time. The tangle of limbs is nearly impossible to negotiate; it's awkward enough with two mitra in bed, much less with him. They do not often hold each other when they sleep, and never when they need to be certain they'll be rested in the morning. But they share the bed, and he is a warm, solid presence, a comrade at her back when she closes her eyes. Tomorrow, to battle. To victory.


End file.
